


Iconic

by olivia3459



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: ContactJHW, ContactSH, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-25 22:01:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14388003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olivia3459/pseuds/olivia3459
Summary: Just something I quickly whipped up for fun, thanks to a few tweets from @contactsh- he intrigued me enough to write this short ficlet.Sherlock leaves his phone unlocked and John is feeling mischevious. Mycroft's mad and Sherlock has a lot to answer to.Featuring: The John Effect





	Iconic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ContactSH](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ContactSH/gifts).



John Watson was on his way out of the flat for a Thursday shift at the surgery when he saw it.

The object in sight was barely noticeable due to the dark, galaxy image its owner had set once upon a time. The chosen wallpaper stemmed from an afternoon when the two had a discussion about the detective’s newfound knowledge of the solar system. John wasn’t buying the boastfulness so easily and proceeded to ask his boyfriend an array of space questions he had learned in primary school. Sherlock did shockingly well, though the situation wasn’t anything John himself would deem “profound”, contrary to Sherlock’s careful word selection.

There were little bits and pieces the outside world knew in regards to Sherlock’s cell phone. Screenshotted conversations uploaded by the man himself let the world know he owns an iPhone, conforming to the likes of the general population. Its space-themed wallpaper was no secret thanks to Harry Watson’s escapade in late December of 2017.

Speaking of which, John thought Sherlock would have learned his lesson by now. It was now the early weeks of February, not too long after Harry managed to have a field day with Sherlock’s unlocked phone- managing to entertain a Watson, enrage a Holmes, and engross thousands of Holmies.

Less than half a minute before John spotted the abandoned device, Sherlock had deserted his microscope, burgundy dressing gown whooshing behind him in a swift motion. The morning had been quiet and warm until Sherlock’s phone chimed.

Up extra early due to a particularly whiny pup, John had found Sherlock sitting at the kitchen table, transferring his amoebae from a pipette and onto a slide. 

John yawned, tugging the bottom of his jumper towards his hips. "Morning, love. Did the dog wake you?"

"Mhmm... he was quite yappy." Sherlock nodded, continuing the transfer with precision. "It's raining."

"Paddy yaps at the rain." Sherlock and John breathed together. The two exchanged cozy smiles. 

John toed at Paddy's furry head while he drank his tea and nibbled at a piece of toast with marmite. He and Sherlock exchanged few words that morning, with John pleasantly distracted by the way Paddy was nosing his ankles for table scraps and Sherlock immersed in his latest experiment. 

This morning was unlike the usual ones. Most mornings, John finds himself unabashedly drawn towards his boyfriend, coaxing Sherlock’s eyes away from the ocular lenses they are intimately close to. Eyes that if the army doctor isn’t careful enough, he can get utterly lost in- unable to find his way back with the ease that frustrates the lover within him, but excites him even more. Sherlock's presence alone could make John's brain go fuzzier than any initial wakeup ever could. 

On these cozy dawns, John always goes to gently pry the long fingers off of the fine adjustment to which they gently pinch. Sherlock reputedly knows what’s coming, but pretends as if he doesn’t- as if the anticipation of John’s minty breath against his plump lips doesn’t make him giddy inside. Of course it does.

That Feburary morning, though, John did not even have the chance to head towards his boyfriend before the detective's phone chimed. Bedhead curls bounced as Sherlock's head whipped up, clearly surprised by such an early morning text. John did not even have to ask, he knew Sherlock was hoping Lestrade had stumbled his way into a case above a six.

Yes, a _six_. The consulting detective was admittedly desperate. As was John. 

From the distinct roll of his eyes and groan of his brother's name, it was not hard for even John to then piece together that the text was not from Lestrade, but Mycroft. John took his mug and plate off of the table and brought them towards the sink, not wanting to directly engage but also curious to see what was going on. The elder Holmes was the sole reason behind Sherlock's abandoned experiment and hasty trudge towards the bathroom. The familiar sound of water rushing through the pipes was instantaneous. 

"Oh piss off, Mycroft!" Sherlock hissed and his phone was put down with a dull thud.

The elder Holmes was the sole reason behind Sherlock's abandoned experiment and hasty trudge towards the bathroom. The familiar sound of water rushing through the pipes was instantaneous. All within seconds. John barely had time to blink. 

Unfortunately for Sherlock, John’s usual ministrations were missed and replaced with a severely pissed off Mycroft.

Fortunately for John, not getting to kiss his boyfriend goodbye before a long day at work was satiated with the glowing treasure on the kitchen counter.

He had to act fast. Before the screen could turn to black John did a dive towards the counter. The doctor let his pointer finger press on the phone as quickly as he could, a triumphant smile forming on his face once his efforts were deemed successful. This morning’s brief text exchange between Mycroft and Sherlock was now right before John’s eyes:

*Pigcroft*

You have really done it now, brother mine.

I do not know what you are referring to. –SH

Nor do I care. –SH

I’ve just had a lovely sunrise chat with the  
Prime Minister of Italy.

I am very happy for the both of you.  
Till death shall you part. –SH

This is no time for sarcasm, Sherlock.

Yes, I agree. My amoebae await. Goodbye,  
Mycroft. -SH

I am sending a car over in 30 minutes.  
If you are not outside by the time it  
pulls to the curb, you are going to heavily  
regret your decision to stay put.

Ooh, I am terrified. –SH

What could YOU possibly do? -SH

Mycroft? –SH

John found this brotherly exchange immature yet amusing and he couldn’t help but chuckle to himself. While wondering what secret information Sherlock had blabbed about was intriguing, nothing beat the fun that leaving his mark in Sherlock’s iPhone would bring.

Although the idea of sending a few tweets and interacting with Sherlock’s faithful Twitter following was tempting, John had a tube to catch and was not keen on punching in late. Holding the silver iPhone in his hand, John knew there were many things he could do with this opportunity if he didn't have to head to the surgery so soon. So, John resorted to the one thing he had on his mind ever since he himself put a photograph of Sherlock as the man's own contact icon. The decision to finally give himself an icon photo wasn't a difficult one. Yes, Sherlock’s face was in John’s phone, yet the detective had never returned the favor. Something about an overload of sentiment.

The doctor exited out of the text conversation between Sherlock and Mycroft and pressed onto his own name. The last texts between the two were visible on the bright screen and John quickly clicked onto his blank, soon to be livened contact photo. 

Happy to make the selfie expression that secretly amused Sherlock most, the “duck face”, John posed in front of the lens and worked his magic. With a satisfied smirk the doctor put his boyfriend’s cell phone in the same place it was before, picked up his medical bag off the floor (not forgetting to pet Paddy one last time), and headed out. Although the shower was still running, noise obvious through the continuous rushing through the pipes, John felt the need to tip-toe down the two flights of stairs. Each creak made him cringe. 

After all, he was dealing with the world's greatest consulting detective. Best to be as sly as humanly possible. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s safe to say Sherlock Holmes was very unhappy that his Thursday morning had been disturbed. Just the evening before, Molly had brought over a container of fresh entamobae histolytica and he had been positively itching to view them under his scope.

In Sherlock’s mind, nothing was worse than having to sit across from his brother when so many better things awaited him… like waiting for John to come home. Drinking the now cold cup of tea on the counter. Agonizingly tuning his violin strings. Cleaning up after Paddy’s messes.

Let’s just say, sitting with Mycroft for thirty seconds made the idea of interacting with his Twitter followers for hours on end feel like he had reached heaven.

Not that Sherlock believed in such whims anyway.

The detective made it as obvious as he possibly could that he was feeling an intense amount of disdain from the moment he shoved his slouched body into the slick, black car. Although it was not Mycroft's driver's fault, Sherlock was sure to groan make the most dissatisfied noises every minute or two. He took to deducing the Russian man in the driver's seat, a new employee of Mycroft's:

"I can tell by the tapping of your fingers on the steering wheel and the tattered handkerchief that you so enthusiastically keep pressing on your forehead that I make you nervous." 

No response from said-driver. 

"I further _deduce_ that you searched me on the internet once Mycroft mentioned me." Sherlock continued. "My Twitter account, to be specific."

The man seemed to choke on his saliva. "I did no such thing, sir."

Sherlock did his best to hide a smirk. "Alright, alright. Fine day today, isn't it?"

The man nodded quickly. "I'd say so, sir."

"Get up nice and early?"

"Yes."

"Make yourself a cuppa?"

"Yes."

"What do you think of my Paddy?"

"He looks like a very fine dog, sir."

"Boring, and untrustworthy." Sherlock rolled his eyes, and through the rear-view mirror, it looked as if the driver was going to throw up. Sherlock would have kept going,  but a familiar voice inside of his head stopped him:

_"Better quit while you're at it, Sherlock."_

"Not good?" Sherlock said out loud, startling the driver. 

 _"A bit not good."_ The familiar voice inside of his head replied. 

Ah, The John Effect.  Sherlock loathed the John Effect. That voice of reason would surface every now and then. Not all the time, but enough to keep him in line when need be. Acting mannerly was for ordinary people. The poor souls. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John's voice caused Sherlock to remember. A frown had set up camp on the detective’s face from the moment he realized he did not get to kiss John goodbye. Their little routine by the microscope always made Sherlock’s day just that much better.

And nothing inside that overly-lavish sitting room would make him smile. Not a single thing.

Or so Sherlock thought.

Doing his best to ignore his brother’s chastising Sherlock sat cross-legged in the leather chair, eyes glued to his iPhone. The sound of Mycroft’s annoyingly posh voice was enough to coax Sherlock onto his phone and he could do all but scroll through messages between him and John to keep himself from exploding. 

To Sherlock’s surprise, there was something that had not been there before. There was little time to wonder when and where John had done this, but there was now a quite hilarious photograph serving as John’s iMessage icon. If Sherlock had known it would have this effect on him, he would have let John do the honors so much sooner.

Sherlock had not realized that his seemingly-permanent frown was, well, not as eternal as he thought it was. He should have known that there was one factor that could indeed cheer him up while in the presence of Mycroft:

John Hamish Watson.

Mycroft cleared his throat the moment he noticed his brother’s unmistakable smirk. “As far as anyone else is concerned, goin- are you smiling?”

Sherlock squirmed. “No.”

“Well that’s what it looks like.” Mycroft retorted quickly, leaning forward with agitated interest.

“Of course I’m not smiling. Why would I be smiling?”

Mycroft did a dive for Sherlock’s phone, yet not successful like John had been. “Give me that.”

“What? No. Get off, you fat lump.”

Sherlock held his phone tightly against him. Within what seemed like seconds Mycroft, true to his form, was out of breath and huffing from the exertion. Sherlock watched positively satisfied as his big brother sunk back into his plush chair and gave him dagger eyes. It was at that moment Sherlock decided to take a photograph of his own, pointing the lens at his annoyed and fuming brother.

Thus was the story of how not only John’s icon came to be, but also Mycroft’s.


End file.
